A book has but one voice, but it does not instruct everyone alike.

I haven’t been posting a lot lately because I’ve been reading. NERRRRD! We’ve had various dog clients boarding here for almost four weeks in a row, so really, I should be spending a lot of time at home with them, and what better way than to let the dogs out into the yard and relax on my patio lounger so I can “supervise” them [while reading]. I’m going to recap starting from the ones I liked least.

The Ghost Writer & The Book of Names. These books had so much potential. The first actually kept me so riveted with the unfolding mystery and so spooked by the suspense of it that I only allowed myself to read it during the day and not before bed. However. The last chapter, The Reveal, if you will, suuuuuuuuuucked. I actually re-read it to make sure I didn’t miss something major. Then I went back to the few sections before that and re-read that as well. Nope, still didn’t make sense. Really disappointing. The second (Book of Names) was better, more cohesive, and entertaining, but it was very Da Vinci Code-esque. Which isn’t a bad thing, but it didn’t seem exactly innovative.

Lucy. Did you know Franklin Delano Roosevelt had a long-term mistress? I didn’t. I know a fair amount about FDR and Eleanor, but I guess only from the Presidency, nothing before. And, in my delightful naive way, I just figured they had a happy marriage. Apparently everything I knew about their marriage I learned from watching the movie Annie. Anyway, this book was charming. Fiction based on historical people and descendants who spoke with the author. Not that I’m condoning adultery. Not that that probably needed to be said. But. You know.

The Memory of Water. Probably classic chick lit. Well, maybe not. It has everything to make a good story: estranged sisters; family secrets kept over generations; boating accidents; divorce; love; and so on. It toggles between the perspective of the four main characters, which has the potential to be totally confusing but the author managed it really well. Very sweet.

The Birth House & An Inconvenient Wife. Have you heard of neurasthenia? Because a few months ago, I hadn’t. To sum up in my totally biased way, basically men a couple hundred years ago decided that women were too “hysterical” and needed to be treated, and one of those treatments was, uh, digital or electric therapy for, uh, their nethers. Disgusting. Heaven forfend that women may want more than to be wives, mothers, and available for social calls by neighborhood Snooty Von Snobbertons – no, they must be hysterical to not conform to society in such a way. ANYWAY. The Birth House was actually mostly about midwives versus the new-fangled doctoring way of treating women in labor with chloroform, and how distrusting doctors were of midwives and their natural treatment of labor. Not to mention how men a mere two centuries ago were AGHAST that women would try to control their own bodies by avoiding conception when possible. The other book (Inconvenient Wife) was more about an unhappy marriage and how the wife tries to fix herself – must have been similar to how women in the 1950s/60s would self-medicate with alcohol and valium when they weren’t fulfilled being trapped at home – NOT because they didn’t want to be mothers, but because they had husbands who felt it would be an insult to them if their wife worked outside of the home. WOW I’m sounded kind of extreme. Don’t worry, I still wear a bra and haven’t stop shaving.

Fingersmith. I’m going to try to be more succinct. Victorian England. One woman a poor thief with a relatively, well-cared-for life; the other a rich heiress who lives in emotional destitution. A fraud. Then a double fraud. Mistaken identities. Family secrets. It’s good.

The Forever King trilogy (Books Two and Three here). So I became mildly obsessed with the whole Arthur/Camelot legend a couple of years ago. I thought I had exhausted the books dedicated to this subject until I stumbled upon these at the library. Its take on the legend of King Arthur (how he will come back/live forever) is fascinating. Basically King Arthur shows up (I’m hesitant to say reincarnation, but I guess technically it’s true) in Chicago in the 1990s. Other characters are “recycled” as well. I don’t know how to describe it, but I thought it was a totally refreshing take on the legend that made it very entertaining to me.

The Pillars of the Earth/When Christ and His Saints Slept (Eleanor of Aquitaine trilogy). FINALLY, right? I first read The Pillars of the Earth 15 years ago and LOVED it. It’s usually my go-to book recommendation. So when I got the sequel (World Without End) I knew I had to re-read it. Am still loving it. If you’ve read other Ken Follett books and think I’m crazy for loving Pillars so much, just trust me and read it. After I read it I went on a Ken Follett frenzy and none of his other books even come close (Dangerous Fortune is good, the best of the others of his I’ve read, but still doesn’t compare to Pillars). I enjoyed it even more this time because several months ago I read When Christ and His Saints Slept, which is about the same time in English history. The second and third books in Penman’s Eleanor of Aquitaine trilogy aren’t quite as good, but it takes a lot for me to just leave a series without reading them all because I’m just that kind of dork.

Now maybe I need to watch some trash TV or something.

Even though I got "Everything!" as a result on the Facebook "How much do you know about newborns?" quiz,

here is why I’m probably not cut out to be a mom. Basically, I’m lazy. I’m lazy and I like TV. And quiet. QUIET. Quiet with the laziness and the television-watching. I cried at least twice a week for the first few MONTHS that we had Boris because he was always looking at me to entertain him, and then going into his whine-whine-whine-whine-FULL ON FREAK OUT BARKING mode within seconds when he didn’t get what he wanted. I’d like to say it was diligent training on our part that corrected that behavior, but really what happened is that he got older. He’s only about 6 now, and he still has his intense and noisy moments, enough that we still think he’s the same old Boris.

Until.

Until we get a one-year-old puppy in the house. A puppy who could play non-stop for hours all day every day and then keep going until the end of time forever and ever amen. Yes, I am talking about the Cough Drop Eater. This dog spent like four or five HOURS at his Wednesday doggie heaven (a trainer takes 3-4 dogs to a hundred-acre off-leash area for the afternoon) and still showed up at my house at 5pm RARING TO GO. I suddenly remembered the feeling from the Beginning of Boris on those rare occasions he was actually tired and would sleep in the middle of the day or the evening – and not just that “I’m lying down and my eyes are closed but I’m still ready for action at a moment’s notice” kind of sleeping, I mean the “full-on, legs doing the pretend-running, snoring, can mess with their paws and ears and smooch on them all you want and they won’t wake up” sleeping – and it would be the sweetest release. Because the former brand of sleeping, when you know they’re not really sleeping, they’re just lying there, probably plotting what they’ll destroy next, is such that even though you know they’re not really sleeping, you still relish the moments that they are lying there calmly and not bugging the piss out of you. The kind of sleeping where you’re just sitting there, looking random crap up on IMDb, and realize you have to pee, but you know as soon as you make even the slightest movement – like leaning forward out of your chair – that dog will DART RIGHT UP like Oh! Is it playtime? You’re getting up! It must be for me! What are we going to do? Go outside? GO OUTSIDE? PLAY?! ARE YOU SURE? HERE, LET ME THWACK MY TAIL IN YOUR FACE 8 BAJILLION TIMES BECAUSE YOU MUST HAVE GOTTEN UP FOR ME! so instead you keep sitting for as long as possible while doing a cost-benefit analysis: Peeing Your Pants vs. Waking The Dog. And then you pee your pants while trying to decide.

Okay, that didn’t happen. I don’t pee my pants. Anymore.

That feeling, though – the anxious “is whatever I think I need to do MORE important than the fact that the dog is resting right now?” – is constant with a new dog in the house. It’s exhausting, being vigilant. Anytime things are too quiet I look around frantically, trying to figure out where he is and what he’s chewing, even though I have at least three dog gates up in various doorways of my house. A little while ago we were all outside – Baxter trying to get Boris and/or Vinnie to play with him, me trying to finish my book because it’s just getting to the really climactic part – and he started barking, trying to entice my dogs into playing. And that’s when it struck me that I would be the laziest goddamned parent ever, because I was all WILL YOU DOGS BE QUIET SO MOMMY CAN FINISH READING HER BOOK AND DRINKING HER COFFEE? GOD.